Smoke Trails
by Kian
Summary: A post-series and OVA one-shot. Exploration of the complicated puzzle that is Yuki Eiri's emotional terrain after the Tokyo Bay Music Festival. Some spoiler content.


Smoke Trails  
  
A Post OVA YuShu Gravitation Fanfic by Kian  
  
Pairings: YukixShuichi  
  
Warnings: yaoi, some OOC, some spoiler materiel for the series and OVA  
  
Suggested Rating: PG - PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: The anime series Gravitation and its characters are copyright to the appropriate creators and companies. The individual under the pen name of "Kian" is receiving no profit from the distribution of this story, nor does said author have any intention to receive compensation beyond hopefully some verbal praise.  
  
Author's Note: This is a short one-shot mostly exploring Yuki's POV post series and OVA. I'm tired of reading people portraying Yuki as an unfeeling bastard, especially after his emotional breakdown mid-series. Unfortunately, I'm not the strongest writer to come in and upset the misconception, but I gave it a shot. *shrugs* Thank you for reading.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Smoke Trails  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He had never meant to cry in front of Shuichi. But the act was so reflective of the nature of their relationship; skip the foreplay, proceed straight to the more intimate aspects of giving yourself to someone. He chuckled at the concept, even as he thought it.  
  
They had been lovers before they had even really been acquaintances, hurting each other in a clash of wills even as they fell into each other physically. But the kid's antics had grown on him quickly; he had enjoyed the persistence the pink-haired fool had shown in not allowing himself to be locked out. Tohma and Mika couldn't understand it, although even Mika managed to muster up a sort of ironic amusement towards the baka after a few encounters.  
  
From the other side, the kid's friend Hiro assumed a status of older brother that rivaled even Tohma's possessiveness, along with the occasional incompetence that the red-haired guitarist made Eiri feel at times. The brat had come through his entire life without letting his stupidity taint him or get him in a truly dire scrape, but the moment this Hiro had handed over protection of Shuichi to him, there had been one misfortune after another for the baka.  
  
Not that he hadn't tried to prevent these malignant actions against the pink-haired singer in his own fashion, but, predictably, he was too late to reverse the effect of his influence. Normally, the distance and the maintained apathy in the personalities and interests of his many lovers kept the injuries from escalating beyond hurt feelings, but he had found himself neck deep in the affairs of the little singer before he had even realized what he was doing. How had he become so deeply invested in this scrap of a kid? When in the many sordid encounters had fondness and reality become wrapped in that appalling shade of pink?  
  
They had certainly not met in a manner similar to any of his other affairs, and the continued presence of the boy was remarkable as compared to the blur the flock of other warm bodies became over time. The boy hadn't even known who Eiri was before he had met him, and he had certainly had no idea the kid would become famous overnight with those ridiculous songs.  
  
Living with another "artist" had created its own fair share of unexpected difficulties. It had added an element to the mix that he had never had to deal with; someone of equal fame sleeping with him presented complications he had never realized, like ruthless career rivals, a rabid press, and unholy scheduling demands.  
  
Now he wasn't the only one dodging unwanted attention and deadlines, so was his lover, which was as humbling as it was frustrating. Not to mention it demanded a negotiation to achieve breathing space for their respective work on compositions, whereas before he had been able to draw lines wherever necessary to accommodate his needs. Yes, an equally famous artist for a lover had produced some unforeseen requirements for an acceptable shared lifestyle. A lifestyle currently in jeopardy as the result of a misunderstanding he had not anticipated.  
  
He leaned back in the driver's seat of his car, dimly registering the pleasurable sound of a muted rumpling of the leather interior as his weight shifted. His latest cigarette hung carelessly from his thin lips, a weakly clumped collection of ashes precariously dangling from the burnt end, threatening to drop onto his slacks due to his inattention.  
  
It had taken most of his willpower to remove himself to the normally comforting solitude of his vehicle after a little over a week without seeing his young lover, but he really had no great desire to linger in the press room which Bad Luck and Nittle Grasper had retreated to after their respective performances for the Tokyo Bay Music Festival in order to answer questions from foreign press. As enthusiastic as Shuichi had been to leap into his arms once he left the stage, Eiri still couldn't shake the illogical fear of abandonment the singer had roused not two weeks earlier when he had returned to his apartment after his TV spot with Tohma to find it hastily emptied save for a poorly scrawled note that had been laced with unspoken accusations and stained with an easily identifiable liquid. It had been Tatsuha's whispered promise to personally walk Shindo to Eiri's car after the interview that had finally given him enough confidence to let the pink-haired young man out of his sight.  
  
Gingerly, Eiri flicked the ashes from his cigarette into the car's ashtray, before returning it to his loosened lips for another unhurried drag, the last for this cigarette as he had never liked smoking the filter, though he'd done it on occasion from absentmindedness or by trying to draw out those last few in a pack. Exhaling leisurely, he closed his eyes, sightlessly snubbing the butt in the ashtray.  
  
Shuichi. Shuichi had left him cold and alone and afraid for more than a week. It had taken him six days to get over his fear and go down to NG Records and walk into Bad Luck's recording studio. Six days spent afraid that if he went and saw Shuichi, the boy would look at him with broken eyes or, even worse, cold and indifferent ones. He'd been carried on the hope that his lover would instead see it for the desperate act it was and come to him with tears, not shrink away like a wounded animal. His lover had not been at the recording studio and all of Shuichi's friends, even his dear Hiro, were at a loss for how to fetch him back. Eiri had fought the urge to whimper at the forlorn image of the unused microphone and had instead spoken the obvious aloud, trying to smile affectionately at Shuichi's antics but only succeeding in looking grim and pained. They had asked him to retrieve their beloved vocalist, but he hadn't known where to begin.  
  
He'd been angry. Angry at Tohma, who had promised that Shuichi would not be hurt by the deal. Angry at Shuichi, who had not waited for him to explain or even given him a chance to. Angry at the bunny-toting idiot for being the one to lure Shuichi back to his duties so easily. Angry at himself for believing Tohma. Angry at himself for not being someone Shuichi could have confidence in. Angry for hurting his lover once again, despite the best of intentions.  
  
He rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He was cold, he realized suddenly; a deep chill that rattled through his bones. And he was tired. He had slept restlessly, if at all. But most of all, he was lonely. The gnawing ache returned in the pit of his stomach and he felt himself reaching for another cigarette. He stopped himself. It was a curious irony, he mused, that the less comfortable a person is with being touched, the more they long to embrace someone loved and just live in the communion of skin and warmth as long as possible. And the longer they have it, the less amount of time they can go without it before other appeased cravings become less and less satisfying. Case in point, Eiri had smoked before Shuichi had arrived in his life, but now he chain-smoked most of the daylight hours, waiting for Shuichi to return from the studio. He was an addict, he thought wryly as he rubbed out the flickering flame of his cigarette in the ashtray.  
  
He heard shuffled movements and unintelligible voices conversing animatedly outside the shell of his car, but he did not move or open his weary eyes. After a few more moments of the muffled roar of departing reporters, Eiri heard the passenger door open and someone slide into the seat, bringing a wave of noise into the sanctuary with them before closing the door with a dull thud. But he remained motionless.  
  
"Yuki?" came the whispered caress of his borrowed name. He itched to respond, but fought the urge down.  
  
"Yuki, are you alright?"  
  
The voice of his lover was quickly reverting from an awed hush to an anxious murmur. Eiri heard the leather give and creak as the young man beside him shifted to face him fully. A hand, cool and dry, came up to brush his cheek and Eiri felt something hot and wet follow the hand's movement.  
  
"Oh, Yuki..."  
  
He turned his head, eyes unseeing but perfectly capable of finding his partner's shoulder as he leaned to rest in Shuichi's shelter. The long, slender arms of his lover embraced his head and pulled the taller man deeper into Shuichi's shoulder, shielding Eiri from prying eyes.  
  
"It was supposed to be good for you...I wanted it to be good...," came the broken words from his normally eloquent tongue.  
  
The younger man hushed him in soft tones, caressing his cheeks softly with fluttering lips. Eiri regained himself at the intimate feel of Shuichi and seized the face of the singer, diving deeply into the other's mouth with possessive, desperate strokes. After long moments of silent gasps and strange gropes, Shuichi pulled back gently.  
  
"Can we go home, Yuki?"  
  
The most beautiful words the boy had ever composed.  
  
They lay entangled in the bed that had been so recently barren, Shuichi breathing soft, sated puffs of air against his collarbone, indicating that the younger lover was far away in his contented thoughts and dreams. But Eiri lay awake still, his prodigal lover strewn over his body like disarrayed clothing, and he turned over his thoughts slowly.  
  
He had never meant to cry in front of the kid, but he had done so twice now. He had intended to say so many things to Shuichi when he had him alone, but he had had no room for words when the moment came. Somehow he thought it should have been more elegant, more cavalier, like the lovers from his infamous novels. But this was about Shuichi and him, not vistas and sunsets. This was burnt toast and stale cigarettes. This was pocky and warm beer. This was being alive.  
  
"I love you, baka. I think I really love you."  
  
And that was quite enough for him.  
  
Fin.  
  
~~~~~~ 


End file.
